America's Suicidal Depression
by Muragaragah
Summary: The year is 1865. America is sitting in a tree in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, reminiscing about the current war that has plagued his country for the last five years when Canada discovers him. Rated for blood. Twoshot.
1. My Country Tis of Thee

____**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
><em>__I really felt like writing a sad and serious America on a whim, since I suddenly became patriotic in my own weird way. So yeah.  
><em>__As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.  
>Enjoy!~<em>_

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><p>America's Suicidal Depression<p>

_My Country Tis of Thee._

Rays of pure sunlight shimmered across the untouched blanket of snow that buried the dead saffron grass, attempting to penetrate the layer of frost that shrouded the States. A golden-haired adolescent perched in a low-hanging willow tree, its muscular trunks gnarled and twisted from enduring countless centuries of Nature's abuse. Despondent dodger blue eyes scanned the pristine expanse of land that stretched out farther than the eye could see. Argentine glasses roosted on top of his head, barely touching the characteristic ahoge that pointed skyward defiantly, never to lay flush with the rest of his choppy, dirty blonde hair. His gaze rose to a faraway sign adorning a hill to the east; bolded charcoal words that welcomed citizens of the teenage country to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania starkly contrasted the beige wood that comprised the sign.

_Bodies clad in hues of steel and slate blue dappled the verdant grass that covered the ground. His eyes bulged as his heart severed the strings that fastened it inside his chest, plummeting into his stomach. A tense, eerie silence pervaded the field; the only semblances of living sound that punctuated the air were the teenager's pounding pulse and his squishing footsteps as he crossed the expanse of earth, littered with the tragedy and destruction of battle. _Had it rained?_ he remembered thinking as he stepped over the thirtieth body he had counted, lying lifeless against the saturated earth. _No, it hadn't rained. _The adolescent stood still for a moment, the rubber soles of his umber boots sinking into the malleable soil. His gaze darted down as he lifted his right boot, nausea churning in his stomach as he witnessed viscous, crimson liquid fill his shallow footprint. _Is that… blood?

"America?"

The novel voice jolted the proud country as his balance abandoned him long enough to lose his grip on the tree, colliding with the ground only a foot below his perch. He sat upright amidst the broken, frigid snow, blue topaz eyes shifting skyward to meet a violet pair cast from the same mold. He could have sworn that he had stumbled into a dream, that he stared at a shade of himself, until he noticed the long piece of curly hair that jutted away from the other's wavy, chin-length hair, the slightly rounded pair of silvery glasses that stationed themselves on the bridge of his nose, and the fluffy polar bear cub which his arms wrapped around. "Oh… hey, Canada."

A feeble smile twitched the corners of Canada's mouth as he crouched in front of his almost doppelganger, setting his bear cub down beside him. "I'm sorry I frightened you. Others tend to not see me coming."

"What are you doing here?" America questioned, an uncharacteristic emotional edge prevalent in his blunt tone.

"Wouldn't it be obvious, America?" Canada prodded gently, his eloquent voice enveloping his mirrored image. "No one has heard from you since 1860, and it's now 1865. Britain, not to mention a handful of other countries, has been worried sick about you, wondering about your welfare. From what I can tell, you're not doing so great… why haven't you reached out for help? No one can read minds, you know."

America merely shook his head, a weighted sigh escaping him as a fleeting puff cloud appeared in front of his face for a fraction of a second before dissipating. "I don't need any help, Canada. I need to learn to deal with my own problems instead of relying on others. And I think I've found a solution to everything. All of my problems will be long gone soon enough."

Canada's eyes narrowed suspiciously, reading into the abnormal gloom coating America's positive words. "Even though you say that, you still look so depressed. What problems have you faced in these past five years to change you so much, America? You're no longer that flamboyantly cheerful country I once knew…."

Another sigh wracked America's frame as he stood, turning away from his twin of sorts though they shared no blood. "Ever heard of mood swings? Just don't worry about it, Canada. It's not for you to deal with, so there's no point in telling you. I don't want to burden you."

"You're not burdening me if I voluntarily want to know what's been bothering you," Canada remarked, arms twining around his polar bear cub once again as he straightened. "Just tell me, please."

America took a few measured paces away before speaking again, the edge in his voice sharp and malicious. "I said don't worry about it, Canada."

His steps quickened as the sound of snow crunching behind him met his ears; he knew at once that Canada intended to follow him until he spilled his guts. A hand constricted his shoulder, attempting futilely to steel America's movements. "America! Please!"

"Please what?" America shot back icily over his shoulder, shrugging Canada's hand away as the terrain in front of him sloped upward. _He'll know once he sees what's over this hill._

"I want to know what's wrong!" Canada stated, desperation threading through his voice.

America's eyes shifted from the ground to glance in front of him: they were over halfway up the hill now. His heart ached; he could vividly picture Canada's broken expression in his mind's eye, always looking like such an overgrown child in dire need of a warm embrace. "I don't want you to know. Leave me alone, Matthew."

The use of his human name halted Canada in his tracks: he knew that America was serious if he resorted to calling his North American counterpart by that name. Inexplicable vehemence boiled like lava in his veins as indignant tears welled in Canada's eyes. "If you truly think you know what's good for you, America, go on then! It's apparent that you don't need me… you don't need anyone, do you?" Words filled with hatred and midnight-tinged anger spewed from Canada, his firm voice choked and scratchy as if all of the turmoil and worry that he had bottled away in the past five years had finally clawed its way out of him. "Your problems are only going to multiply until they crush you, you know that? Then you'll come crawling back to your friends… your acquaintances… anyone that you think will help, but you'll be too late, America! Too late…!"

America stopped at the top of the hill, a hand waving through the air as if dismissing the acrimonious words that tore at his heartstrings. "I'm already too late," he mumbled under his breath, too quiet for Canada to hear.

"I'll always be here to help you, America, but you need to make some effort too…! You know where to find me, but until then… consider this goodbye." Quartzite tears streamed down Canada's cheeks, prickled by the arctic air as he turned away from America, pacing slowly toward the opposite direction.

America's troubled ocean eyes scrutinized the ground below him, reaching the zenith of the tiny hill: no snow had dared to stick to the forsaken ground on which all the grass had died away, leaving the obsidian soil exposed. Though the battle fought here had waged two years ago, the blood from the casualties still drenched the tainted earth. A sword had been plunged into the middle of the former battlefield since the last time America had visited Gettysburg—he figured that the wife of a nameless soldier that had given his life for his country had placed it there, a makeshift memorial to remind passersby of the battle that marked the turning point of the war. "My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing…." America began, his right hand brushing against a holstered pistol attached to his leg.

"…Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrims' pride…." The plaintive song wafted through the still air, forcing Canada to stop his advancement. A tight, unsettling knot formed in his stomach as he began to turn back toward his sometimes friend, wiping his tear-stained face with the back of his sleeve. _He's… singing?_

America unfastened the pistol and in seconds removed it from its holster. "From ev'ry mountainside…." His voice ascended in pitch as it transformed from a quiet call to an almost shout, his right finger curling around the trigger that seemed to have been crafted especially for him.

The gun rose to the side of his head, the barrel kissing the pliable skin of his right temple. Canada's eyes flashed to the gun as realization hit, his heart leaping into his throat as he broke into a run. "No, America! NO!"

"Let freedom ring!" America's head tilted upward to the cloudless natural ceiling overhead as he called the last lyric of the first verse of his country's song to the heavens, his finger squeezing the acquiescent trigger.

Scarlet blood spurted from the left side of America's head, staining his wheat-hued hair and the ivory blanket of snow beneath him a horrid red. Canada raced to him as his polar bear cub leapt from his arms; he reached America as the solemn country's body crashed against the unyielding snow underfoot, the impact wrenching the pistol from his dominant hand. America's chest shuddered as the blistering fingers of pain waltzed the length of his spine, branching out across all of the nerve connections in his body. One of Canada's arms dove under America's neck, supporting his head as his indigo eyes met the other's narrowed cornflower blue. The other wrapped partially around America's midsection as lukewarm tears dripped onto the front of his jacket. "See, Mattie…? Problem… solved…." America murmured as he descended into a coughing fit, vermilion blood coloring his pallid lips.

"No, you idiot! This wasn't the right way to do it!" Canada's voice morphed into a pained howl, endless sobs wracking his frame as America's eyes fluttered shut, his head suddenly falling limp against Canada's arm.

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><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	2. Sweet Land of Liberty

____**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
>As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.<br>Enjoy!~__

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><p><em>Sweet Land of Liberty.<em>

_ Tidal waves of sepia crashed over the saffron-haired country suspended in abyssal, pitch-black space, installed into a world in which time had iced over. It was impossible to tell if his cobalt eyes were open or not, but even still his gaze darted around, attempting to pinpoint his unknown location. "Mattie?" He called out to the airless space around him, though his voice never met his ears._

_ The scenery changed abruptly, wrenching the baffled country from what could have been purgatory and transplanting him just outside a brick courthouse. Wide Victorian porches wrapped around the first and second story, accented by three boxy windows on the top story and two on the bottom. A formidable staircase led to an open front door, almost beckoning the country inside. An ethereal force directed the blonde as he traipsed up the stairs and through the door; though he had never once been in this courthouse in his living memory, he knew somehow that he had to climb the lacquered flight of stairs and enter the second door on his right. Low voices wafted through the air as he ascended the stairs, rising in volume and clarity until America pushed the second door to his right open and allowed himself inside._

_ Two men occupied the room, both dressed in ornamented uniforms that America recognized automatically: they had to have been commanders in the war that currently savaged his beloved country. One, an older-appearing gentleman with trimmed silvery hair and beard, perched behind a marble-topped mahogany table while the other, seeming slightly younger with smartly-cut dark hair, settled behind an oval writing desk. Their dialogue had a clipped quality to it, as if they never finished their sentences entirely: America was only able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation, though it had to do with something about the Mexican-American War that had waged two decades previously. Neither seemed to notice America's intruding presence within the room as their topic of discussion switched. "Terms… surrender…." the graying man spoke, his hands lacing together and coming to rest on the table in front of him._

_ "The Union will… receive surrender… Army of Confederacy… officers and soldiers… not to take arms again for… duration of their lives… not to be disturbed by United States authority… as long as they observe the laws… is that clear, General Lee...?" The other situated at the writing desk stated, a pen whisking over formal-looking documents spread across the stout table._

_ "Thank you, Lieutenant Grant… American Civil War… is now over…." Lee breathed in relief, his hands unlacing as he stood from his chair and crossed the room, extending a hand to the now-standing Grant._

_ America's throat closed as they shook hands; his lungs seemed to twine together in his chest as a crushing pain radiated throughout his body, his heartbeat pounding against his eardrums and effectively staunching all outside sound. He collapsed against the floor, a hand uselessly reaching toward the older men as his azure eyes fluttered shut, agonizing pain shackling his brain and body…._

"FUCK!" the teenage country screamed as he bolted upright in a foreign bed, his left hand clawing at his chest and a sheen of arctic sweat shimmering against his apricot skin in the quivering candlelight.

His clear, robin's egg eyes scanned the room until they stumbled upon the form of Canada, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair placed beside his bed. "Mattie?" America called, a hand reaching out and grasping Canada's shoulder, carefully shaking his lookalike.

The blonde jolted, tumbling out of the chair as his glasses flew off of his nose. "Eh…? A-America?" Canada exclaimed in bewilderment, hopping to his feet reflexively as a pair of violet eyes appraised the wounded country through a slightly blurred periphery. "Thank God that you survived…."

"Where are we? Survived…? Mattie, what are you talking about?" A wheat brow quirked as America eyed the meek country, confusion waltzing across his expression.

"You can't tell me you don't remember, Alfred…." Canada muttered, the raw pain that coursed through his voice along with the use of America's human name sending unpleasant shivers down the other's spine, "You tried to off yourself… with a gun… you shot yourself in the head, right temple. You better be goddamned thankful you're a nation… no human could survive that… after that I brought you to my house. It's the only thing I c-could think of doing at the time." His eyes shifted to the floor instantly, an attempt to hide the tears that welled once again in his eyes.

America's right hand flitted up to the side of his head, fingertips grazing the cottony gauze that coiled around the top of his head. His eyes widened as his memory returned to him, much like a dammed river breaking through the manmade obstruction and flowing freely once more. Stills of a fleeting dream that clung to the edge of his memory played through his mind of the two older men talking as liquid-hot realization dawned over him. "Holy shit Mattie…! The war… it's finally over…."

"Your war? How do you know that…?" Canada asked, his voice cracking harmonically as his hands balled into fists, attempting to hold fast to his composure.

"I saw it! At first I was in this really dark room, then I got transported to this brick courthouse and something made me go to the second floor, where these two old dudes were talking… they were the generals of the Union and Confederate armies discussing the Confederacy's surrender! Somehow, I saw this… and I know the war's over for good." America nodded certainly, the characteristic fire of determination igniting behind his irises for the first time in five years.

Canada forced himself to meet America's eyes, reading the familiar bravery that he had once longed to see as fat tears rolled down his cheeks, whisking away the calm-and-collected façade that he had worn for far too long. His breath came in shuddering gasps as he stepped closer to his doppelganger, perching on the edge of the bed and tossing his arms around America, his forehead banging into the hard surface of the other's shoulder. "You were… so damn far gone during this… war… and now you're… finally back…." Canada managed through the relentless sobs that wracked his frame, his shoulders trembling weakly.

"I'm sorry," America whispered in his ear as his sinewy arms embraced Canada, holding the other country close to him; his eyes prickled warningly as a lone tear jetted down his left cheek.

Canada lifted his head, swiftly wiping away the tear tracks imprinting his skin with his sleeve as his watery indigo eyes met America's steady sky blue. His brows lifted as he noticed how clear and iridescent his neighbor's irises glimmered, no trace left of the cloudy quality his eyes had donned during the civil war that had all but decimated him. He shook his head as he cleared his throat before speaking, "Don't apologize. Just don't… don't let things get that bad ever again. Promise me that at least."

America nodded, the tension that surrounded his eyes softening as an aura of calm engulfed him, seeming to emit from the country in his arms. "It's a promise, Mattie."

A hand reached up to America's face, cupping his cheek as a tropical smile illuminated Canada's countenance. He chuckled throatily, his eyes flickering across America's cheeks now infused with embarrassed rouge. "Do you think you're ready to go back home?"

"Yeah," America replied, confidence weighting his words as his hand shadowed Canada's, plucking it away from his face and lacing his fingers through the other's. "I think it's time for Reconstruction."

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><p><em>Fin.<em>


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